#cloudlines

[cloud-player]

Penacony Tales - pt. ???+1

'how did you end up with that knight?' - jealous doctor

[lautisartdump]

[sagent-of-chaos]

the average american jury is extremely attentive and interested in what you have to say

[seud-luachmhor]

[shharib]

orange is happiness. with you i found it.

[infamousmonkey-cat]

🎶 your life was one long emergency 🎶

[ashalsdream]

two recent adopt works, left is still available!

[foreverephemeral]

The Ecologist's many parents. 9 Grinding Axles, 10 Whirring Gears originally created it as a gift for his daughter, Twisting Maze, who was always eager to explore the world left beneath the cloudline, but unable to due to the danger it posed.

3 Thermal Spires was the host upon which Axle and Maze resided. Millennia after their departure, he rediscovered The Ecologist's genetic plan in her archives and remade it to release into the wild.

3TS itself is unique in its existence due to its age; Originally a prototype that preceded even the earliest Iterator models, xe was kept alive as a living relic of xeir time. With each evolution in Iterator construction, 3TS was redesigned and rebuilt to keep it from falling out of date. His puppet, too, was constantly being reiterated upon, and its current appearance was merely the latest design in an extensive series, left eternal following his Creators' departure.

[its-quiet-colter]

Mile High Club.

Agent Whiskey x Agent Pisco - Male! Reader

Word Count: 3926

Warnings: NSFW smut (18+), implied switch!whiskey & reader, friends with benefits, blowjob, handjob, thigh fucking, denial of feelings, semi-public sex (kinda) they b fuckin' in the plane.

Notes: this is apart of the Pisco and Whiskey series so i'll link part one. they're stand alones but meant to be read together :) i'm hoping for five or six parts in total !

| Part One | Part Two |

| archive of our own |

The Statesman’s private jet rumbles low and smooth as it makes its way towards Kentucky above the cloudline. It’s warm inside, with the faint smell of the distillery still lingering in the plane’s interior. The leather chair you’ve claimed as your own for the journey home is luxurious, the leather worn and high quality with its soft finishes and suede accents. The Statesman emblem embroidered onto the arm of the seat. 

Turbulence does little to unsettle the plane as its engine – high grade and expensive – keeps the ride graceful. It’s almost enough to lull you into a gentle sleep. And lord do you need it after your latest mission. There’s an ache in your shoulders that’s been there since this morning and a nasty bruise on the right side of your ribcage, left there from a chase through an underground marketplace. Turns out the selling of illicit drugs and illegal weapons was a high enough priority  for you and Whiskey to be sent out on a wild goose chase after the suppliers. But you were left empty handed, with nothing but battered bodies, bruised egos and both of your positions compromised to show for it.

You’re exhausted as you slump against the cushioning of the armchair, the scotch on your drinks tray having already been refilled twice over. You needed something to settle your nerves after such a long and grueling day out on the field. 

Ginger’s voice sounds muffled, distant and far away. Even as she only leans against the pool table in the middle of the room, folder in hand as she recites the debrief and talks you through the next steps. You fiddle with your tie again and look over to see Whiskey’s already pulled his free and has discarded it somewhere, undoing the buttons of his once crisp white shirt. It's there you realised he also stopped listening sometime between Ginger’s report of missing firearms and the serial numbers you found on the crates. 

Whiskey’s always been a little bit restless, always wanting to get out into the field and fix things himself– to not get bogged down in the paperwork and the meticulous details that Statesman requires of their agents. And he certainly never entertains Ginger when it’s her turn to run the post-mission debriefs.

Being an agent, much less one with a partner like Whiskey, has always been a cause for trouble. You’re exhausted and wrung out more often than you’d like to admit. But you love him, in your own fond way. Even if he landed you in Champ’s office more times than you can count for cutting corners and not listening to the intel provided. Convinced he can do it all himself. You remember Champ’s clear advice on the day you two were first paired together. Back when you were fresh out of the academy without the slightest idea of what Statesman had in store for you.

“He’s your responsibility, Pisco. Kid’s as reckless as you are. And I can’t have both my young bucks in trouble. I need you to be the level headed one– watch each other’s backs and keep the other out of trouble. Do that, and I think you two will do just fine here.” Champ had said with his classic southern drawl, rolling a vintage cigar in his fingers as he had gestured to the seat at the table that would always be held for Pisco. 

You’ll never forget the fond but expectant look he had given you when he welcomed you to the Statesman and told you Whiskey was yours as much as you were about to be his. Champ hadn’t meant it like that, of course. Partners in crime, the one to keep each other safe. Statesman could provide all the surveillance and intel you needed, but out there in the field– where explosions and bullets are occupational hazards rather than one-off incidents, it’s you who’d be out there covering his back. Partners, but not of that kind.

But then again, Champ didn’t think you two would end up frotting in the back of Tequila's jeep not even a year after being assigned together.

Lost in the thoughts of the good old days, you’ve completely given up on trying to pay attention to Ginger’s speech. I’ll apologize later, you think. Ginger’s always been a friend, and she puts up with your and Whiskey’s bullshit more times than either of you can count. You watch the jet pass through a thick layer of clouds, idly noticing the dew on the outside window and the way the landscape below disappears and reappears in quick succession. It’s rhythmic and soothing and enough to take your mind off things for a while.

Whiskey watches from his own seat opposite you. 

He notices the slight scuff on the side of your cheek from the chase during the mission, the way your suit is slightly askew and wrecked, and the way you’re reclined in the soft leather of the armchair– exhausted under the guise of being relaxed and boneless. He knows your appearance is due to the fact you’ve been running around all day, narrowly escaping every dangerous threat thrown at you. But in the soft lighting of the jet, he can’t help but think you’re not too far off from the dishevelled state he often leaves you in. When you’d both sneak away from those dry and boring meetings. Hidden amongst the barrels in the cellar that hoards Statesman’s finest collection of bourbon, Whiskey would be down on his knees, your cock taken down his throat as he milked you for all you had.

The sight of you now is all but a reminder of the taste of you.

It’s only been a week since you fucked him over the couch in that Seattle hotel, your hands holding onto his sides as he took all of you with his back arched and mouth left open in a drawn out moan. He can still feel you, the way you tugged on his belt to pull it loose, your hands moving him in whatever way it suited. He remembers the feel of your lips around the base of his cock, and the way you nailed his prostate which never failed to send him over the edge. 

Any other man would be flushed and embarrassed by the memory. But not Whiskey. All it does is serve to make his slacks grow tighter and his eagerness for you all the more intense.

You watch as he glares at Ginger, almost bothered by how methodical and well rounded she is with her research. Like he can’t wait to be done with this meeting and you wonder what’s gotten him so restless. It can't just be boredom, he’s always found a way to entertain himself through debriefs before. But then you notice it.

There it is. The slight shuffle of his body across the armchair as he tries not-so-subtly to hide his hard on by crossing one leg over the other and placing his hat over his lap. It takes all that’s in you not to laugh at the sight. Whiskey doesn’t know what subtlety is if it hit him square in the face.

You watch with satisfaction as Whiskey shifts, and then shifts again. The slight squeeze of his thighs and the way his ankles lock together. Awkwardly, he tries to alleviate the pressure in his pants, the faintest hint of friction enough to bite his top lip and lick the bristles of his just-barely overgrown moustache. He’s overdue for a trim, you think idly as you watch the movement of Whiskey’s mouth. The smallest of movements is more than enough to flood your mind with thoughts of him– lips around the head of your cock– and suddenly he’s not the only one suffering through Ginger’s debrief.

By the time she’s finished, clicking the off button on her clipboard and standing up straight, it feels like hours have passed. In reality, it’s more like twenty minutes or so, but it’s enough for you to settle your arousal and not embarrass yourself in front of your colleagues. Whiskey on the other hand has no such luck with his predicament, and you watch with a bitten back grin as he bolts to the bathroom the second she’s done talking. Almost tripping along the way as the door slams a little too harshly in a desperate attempt to separate himself from the rest of the plane.

“What’s up with Whiskey?” Ginger asks, standing beside you as she watches him go in slight confusion. There’s a gentle curiosity in her voice, along with an underlying tone of concern. She might not always see eye to eye with Whiskey, but she does care about him. You all do.

“No sé,” You say softly with a shake of your head, your hands stuffed in your pockets to hide the urge to fidget uncomfortably. “He’s probably just got flight sickness.”

She knows you’re lying. 

Ginger’s always been the perceptive one and it’s so blatantly obvious you’re not telling the truth since Whiskey has never been known to get sick whilst flying. Hell, he’s one of the few Statesman agents who is qualified to fly their F-22A Raptor Fighter Jet, Silver Pony. Something that Tequila never lets any of you hear the end of whenever he’s in a bad mood from having failed another pilot’s test.

The sound of a thud comes from the direction of the bathroom and you take it as your que to leave.

“I should check on him,” You say, the concern in your voice is only mildly convincing. You know exactly what’s wrong with him.

“Alright.” Ginger says with a final nod of her head, her fingers holding her clipboard like it’s suddenly become more interesting. She’s read the room, and she knows whatever is behind that bathroom door is a Pisco problem, not a Statesman one.

You watch as she makes her way to the bar, taking a seat and reaching over the counter for the closest bottle she can reach. She knows, you think. You have half a mind to ditch Whiskey and turn to her. Maybe you’d defend yourself, deny it. Try to assure yourself and Ginger that there’s nothing going on between you two. Nothing serious anyway. This thing you have with Whiskey– it’s professional. It won’t compromise either of you. You swear it. But even as you think the speech over in your head, the words sound unconvincing even to yourself.

The tick of your watch goes off. Another hour passed, and another hour closer until you’re back in Kentucky. It’s distractingly loud for such a small device as you shuffle your weight from one foot to the other. But maybe you’re just hyper aware of every little sound on the jet, too worked up to focus on just one thing. Undecided which direction you should walk as the silence rings out heavy in the room. You bite the inside of your cheek, considering both options before another thud is heard from the direction of the bathroom and your mind is made up for you.

Before you know it, you’re knocking on the door of the bathroom as you swear and fuss under your breath.

The lock clicks open, and Whiskey’s hand reaches out to tug you in with a handful of your shirt, shuffling awkwardly against the small counter to make room for you.

“Coño, could you have been any louder, Whiskey?” You grumble half-heartedly but he’s quick to bring you in for a searing kiss, well past the point of wanting to hear the lecture about public decency and professionalism in the workspace. Not when he’s preoccupied with the feel of your tongue over his teeth and your hands sliding up under his shirt to feel hot skin.

“Pisco.” Whiskey groans your name, bottom lip caught between his teeth as his head falls back against the bathroom wall. You go with him, following the movement until he lets your lip go as his mouth falls slack in a moan. God, he wants you.

It’s the first time you’ve taken a decent look at him since entering the bathroom. His suit’s ruined; blazer discarded against the lid of the toilet, his shirt rumpled and untucked with only half the buttons undone. Whiskey’s slacks are undone, belt still left in the loops as they rest around his thighs along with his underwear. One hand is wrapped around his cock, stroking himself desperately as he bucks and hisses into his palm. Desperate, you think. His eyes half-lidded and wanting as he looked at you expectantly.

Whiskey’s always been a show off. He’s come more times than he’s willing to admit, showing off for you. He loves to lay back and stroke his cock, arching and moan as he almost dares you to come over and make a mess of him. Whiskey is a man that loves to rile you up and play dirty, but you’ve seen how his own arousal betrays him. When his eyes widen and he tenses up when he realises he’s come too early and left spoiled in front of you.

“Pisco–” He moans again, this time his voice carrying a slight whine. Impatience is getting to him after being so worked up for a majority of the plane ride.

Whiskey reaches out, grabbing hold of your lapel. His thighs part as much as they can underneath the fabric of his slacks, wanting you closer so he can feel the press of your body against his own. He abandons his own leaking cock, needing both hands to tug at your belt and tug at the offending fabric keeping your arousal hidden.

“Come on, sugar.” Whiskey urges you on, tugging on the waistband of your to pull your member out from its confides. His hand, calloused and warm and already coated in his own precum, strokes you with a long drawn out movement from your base all the way up to thumb the tip.

Your head falls on his shoulder, groaning into the fabric of his shirt as your hips jut into his fist. It’s hasty and hurried, but the heat around you both from your breathy moans and body temperature has your head feeling light.

The bathroom is relatively simple, barely enough room for one person. There’s a small shower, a sink with a washer and cabinet mirror and a toilet in the corner. Everything is the same cream colour, but with the light off it's hard to notice so much– such an afterthought compared to the rest of the jet’s luxurious amenities. But you distinctly remember overhearing Champ telling Ginger all the planes are due for a remodel soon anyway.

“Switch with me,” Whiskey moans against your cheek, his hand moving fast around your cock. His own desperation making him more than eager. “Please darlin’.”

With a nod, you pull back enough to let Whiskey shuffle awkwardly around you. Trying to step over your leg without banging his tailbone against the counter. He can’t help but buck his hips when the movement has him grinding his oversensitive cock against your hip and he has to take a moment to just grip your shirt and stave off his orgasm. You can feel his hands flex as he clutches at your clothing, the way he tenses and he grinds his teeth together with his eyes squeezed shut. Frustrated at how close he is already as his hips roll forward.

“Steady.” The confidence in your voice surprises even yourself, sounding more put together than Whiskey, even if you feel just as riled up. “We’re good.”

You both shuffle around until your back is pressed up against the wall, your slacks down around your ankles. Whiskey spits in his palm, heavy and warm, his tongue lolling out lazily as heat pools low in your stomach at the sight. He rubs the insides of your thighs, feeling warm skin and strong muscle as he takes his time with all of you on offer.

Whiskey moves forward, his chest flushed against your own as he puts his cock between your thighs and thrusts languidly.

“Squeeze 'em for me, darlin’.” He moans, head tipped forward against your neck with his forearms planted either side of you.

The feel of Whiskey all around you, the smell of arousal and the warmth in your gut. It’s everything you love about him. How you two fit together perfectly. You do as you're told, thighs squeezing around his leaking cock as he bucks forward and thrusts against you frantically. His pace set early as he chases his own pleasure.

You can feel the weight of him against you, the way he thrusts into the heat between your thighs and you’re reminded to let him fuck you again the next time more space allows for it. He’s left you sated and properly wrung out more times than you can count.

“Yeah, so good, sugar.” Whiskey huffs under his breath, the praise delivered right against your ear. You can feel the brush of his moustache, the warmth of his soft little pants as he kisses down your neck and sucks a dark mark.

“Whiskey– below the collar.” You complain, pulling him into an open-mouthed to keep him from making it any less obvious between you two. Tongues roll together and the bristles of his facial hair against your top lip have you shivering as he whines into your kiss.

“You know that’s not how this works.” You’re left panting when you pull away, looking at him as your noses bump against one another.

“I heard ya, darlin’,” Whiskey says, his voice wrecked and as equally disheveled but the slight undertone of disappointment is there. You know him too well not to notice it.

You press an apologetic kiss to his lips, something soft and tender to cut through all the arousal and heat. His breath gets lighter, caught by something in his throat as you tug his buttons open and reveal his collarbone.

Whiskey’s cock twitches between the warm press of your thighs as you bite at his collar and leave a sprawl of little hickies and love bites. There’s the distinct taste of his sweat, his skin warm and smooth under your lips. If you could, you’d lay him out on a bed and kiss over every little bit of skin offered.

“Happy?” You ask, and his triumphant grin tells you all you need to know.

“Course I am, sugar.” Whiskey purrs against your lips as his eyes flash with excited arousal. His hips pick up their pace and he’s moaning against you. Precum beads from his tip, making the slide of his cock between your legs feel that much better.

Your hands move down his back, making him shiver as you brush against his waist. He thinks you’re going to settle on his hips, ease the movement of his thrusts– he loves when you set his pace, making him thrust at the tempo you want. a real cowboy through and through as he rides his stallion– but no. Your hands slide lower, down to Whiskey’s cheeks where you cup warm muscle in your palms and squeeze.

He moans, loud and filthy. 

Whiskey bucks forward into the tight heat of your thighs and then pushes back against your hands. The soreness in your bodies and the bruises littered all over you both are forgotten in the hazy fog of arousal. All he can think about is the heat of your muscled thighs around his cock and the way you hold him open. Whiskey can’t help the choked noise that falls from his lips at the brush of cold air against his hole. 

You kiss his temple, his cheek, whatever you can reach as his head rests against your own– almost like a warm and intimate embrace. Whiskey moans against your skin as he feels your finger against his entrance, not pushing inside but merely as a reminder of what will come later.

Heat coils low in Whiskey’s gut and he tries to push back on your fingers, wanting you. Needing you. Whatever you can give him. 

“Pisco–” He groans, his body tensing as his hips stutter forward and lose their rhythm.

Whiskey’s eyes go wide and he watches you, mouth slack as his orgasm hits hard. You feel warmth between your thighs, his come making a mess of you as he rides out his pleasure. The heat in his gut finally gives way as he calms down.

He’s boneless against you. Dishevelled and messy, Whiskey slumps forward so his chest is pressed against yours and his face is tucked against your neck.

“Mh,” He hums happily, eyes closed in blissful afterglow. “That was good, darlin’.”

Your hand finds its way to the back of Whiskey’s head, fingers sliding through his short sweaty hair on the back of his neck. Both of you stay like that, wrapped in a half-embrace, pressed together in a little bubble where the outside world is long gone.

As you’re catching your breath, Whiskey’s hand falls from your waist down to your neglected cock. He thumbs the tip, dragging his hand down in a languid pace now that he’s come. There’s no rushing in his movements.

It's here where you two forget you’re not a couple. Whiskey is your partner in everything to do with Statesman. But at the end of the day he heads to his own apartment, and you go to yours.

Sometimes you wonder if you two should just rip the bandaid off and talk about it. But that would mean talking about this. All these intimate little moments where Jack’s cocky persona is gone, his eyes half lidded as he watches the way you grind against his palm and he collects the precum leaking from your tip like it’s his prize for making you feel good.

“Jack.” You moan softly, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck as you twitch in his hand. He’s moaning too. Quiet little noises as his soft brown eyes are glazed over and his gaze is trained to the movement of his hand over your cock.

Your orgasm rolls through you, easy and relaxed as pleasure washes over you. Jack brings you in for a kiss as he strokes you through it. A soft, intimate gesture as you both hold each other.

There’s a long beat where neither of you move. Your back against the wall as your hands rest on his sides. Both of you are content to stay where you are despite the drying come on your thighs and the state of your crumpled suits.

It comes as a startle when there’s a rapt knock on the door. Two quick taps.

“Plane’s landing soon.” Ginger’s voice calls out, curt and quick. Like she’s practiced it in her head and now she can’t wait for it to be over with. You can hear the embarrassment in her voice. Apologize later, you remind yourself for the tenth time today.

Whiskey chuckles quietly against your shoulder, looking up at you with a raised brow. “Come on, sugar. We can’t keep 'em waiting or Champ’s going to chew us out again.”

Your eyeroll is to be expected, but so is your playful grin as Whiskey gives you a chaste kiss and pulls back to try and make himself look presentable again. Lord knows how difficult that will be, but a part of you– that quiet little part deep within your thoughts– honestly doesn’t mind the idea of you and Whiskey being seen like this together.

[cloud-player]

Penacony Tales - pt..?

i stopped counting sorry my hand also started dying in the middle of drawing veritas sorry bout that

[lautisartdump]

at some point I will actually do those with a higher resolution

[givemeyams]

It's Raining Cybertronian

Content: Rung X (GN) Reader [Fluff], discontinued - no idea if I will ever finish this

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.1K

-Rung-

It took all but a nano-second before Rung could register the feeling of free fall. He knew what was coming. He had been ejected from ships before. Watching his transport sizzle past the cloudline, he did not have the strength to turned towards the ground. He just braced for impact - just a few clicks more..

System Reboot.. 3. 2. 1.

He woke up in pain. It wasn't from the impact, it was like some of his armor was melted off. Most likely from a explosion but how?..

Pressure senors were the first to come online. He could feel liquid precipitation against his armor. Dihydrogen Monoxide his internal database supplemented: non-lethal, a chemical compound common on class-M planets, essential for most organic life.

Next his audio and olfactory sensors. Accompanied by the rain, he could hear a cackling of fire. It was close enough that he could smell the burnt metal and plastics. Strange enough, next to him, someone or something was talking in Galactic Standard. "This is y/n of the Dee Ai, requesting cybertronian medical support, I repeat, requesting cybertronian medical support."

Immediately when his optics flickered on, the pacing creature stopped all movement and sound. It was a bipedal organic a third of his size walked towards him. It was hard to tell what species they were when layered in a dense synthetic material, most likely to keep them insulated from the air precipitation and other natural elements.

He immediately tried to get up, only for the small thing to run to him, two servos motioning steadily, "Easy big bot, you were hurt badly," they said.

Sure enough, warnings overloaded his hud. He only managed to get to an upright position when he clenched his side. Like he suspected, most of his body sustains burns, his lower half suffering the most damage. His peds were practically warped by extreme heat.

"I believe you are correct in that assessment," he groaned. He looked around, sure enough there was a smoldering pile of metal behind him. He was under the treeline, though it offered minimal protection against the elements. "Who are you and where am I?"

"Call me Buddy. I'm a cartographer. You are on a Class-M planet, 2nd to the sun, in the Centuro System. I'll have to get back to you on the exact coordinates. How are you feeling?"

Rung's optics shut off trying to parse through his internal diagnostics. It was no use, whatever radiation was affecting him, was also messing with his systems. "In pain," he groaned, "Might be able to override my pain inhibitors."

"Wait, I might be able to help," said the being. Before running to a land base vehicle. A truck built for off world exploration. They came back carrying a machine wrapped in a flexible material. "I have a EM generator here. If you'll allow me, I can put these clamps on the areas that hurt the most."

He just nodded. Ordinarily, he would be curious as to how this organic knew about his biology, it'll have to wait. The creature was talking to him again. "It's going to feel weird but I am going to have to climb on you, speak up if its too much,” they said.

Rung just watch. It was odd. His pressure sensors were reacting both to the water and to the beings scuttering around his chassis. They were much more spritely than he previously thought, moving fluidly against the metal plating. With each clamp, the pain ebbed away and so did the helm ache.

"There, that's the most I can do for now." They said, holding out a servo, "We'll just have to wait until the rain stops until we can do more."

His vents were already circulating un hindered, a cybertronian sigh of relief. "You have done more than enough, Thank you. I heard you sending out a distress signal, have you received anything back?"

They shook their head, "No luck. I think it's the storm. This planet has some weird electrical anomalies. I was out measuring them when you crashed on my ship."

His optics went wide. The burning mass at the center of the clearing was a ship. Their ship. Rung started to panic. "Goodness, I am so sorry. I didn't realize.. you were not hurt were you or anyone else?"

The small creature pinched their nose arch, "Easy there big bot. No one here but me and I'm fine. I'm more dumbstruck than anything else. What happened to you?"

"I don't know. All I remember is taking a shuttle for shore leave and experiencing turbulence. Next thing I know, The exterior hatch was gone and I was jettisoned out." He rubbed his neck, "I know what it may seem but I had no intention of destroying your ship."

They laughed dejectedly. "I believe you, it's just, this isn't the first time my ship turned to scrap for an inexplicable reason."

Rung stared at the being. Were they being serious? "Is this a common occurrence for you?"

"Once I rebuild the Dee Ai again this will be the sixthteenth iteration."

“How much?" If they caught his surprise, they chose to ignore it.

"A story for another time. By the way, what is your name? I can't keep calling you 'big bot' afterall."

He tipped his helm. He would comply, but he actually liked the nickname. "My designation is Rung."

There was excitement in their voice. It made his spark flutter. "It is a pleasure to meet you Rung."

It was curious to watch them makeshift a shelter between the doors of their vehicle. It would have been easier just to shelter inside, but they were determined to keep within audio distance of him. They were considerate, asking multiple times if he was okay. The constant rain was a nuisance but nothing life threatening. If anything, a welcome distraction from his more serious injuries.

Finally, for what seemed like a joor, the being unmasked their head covering. Much to his surprise, he recognized their species. "Forgive me if I am wrong, but are you human?"

Their head tilted. Was that a sign of curiosity? "I am. I am surprised that you know. Do you have any experience with my people?"

"A friend of mine is fascinated about your culture." Rung chuckled at the memory, "actually he would be ecstatic to meet you."

The human was drying what looked like fur at the top of their head. "I don't know about that, depends on what he is interested in."

Rung thought fondly of the drinking establishment. "He runs a bar on the ship. Very expressive and well versed in human idioms that I admit have trouble understanding. As for interest, I believed he called the media 'sit-coms'."

They chuckled at the comment. "That might be a problem. It's been so long since I consumed human media I wouldn't know where to start. Ask me about history, biology, or even psychology then we can have a conversation."

His spark jolted. "Your species has a science for studying the mind?" he could not hold the excitement in his voice.

"Sure, we have whole institutions dedicated to it. There is nothing like human ineffability."

"You say that as if your species is impossible to understand."

The individual sighed, "Without getting too deep, Humans are contradictory in nature. We can be just as caring and compassionate as we can be violent and brutal. We are individualistic yet our survival depends on our cooperation with each other. We have a deep seated fear of the unknown, yet we are natural explorers, having populated nearly all of Earth's continents with nothing but tools made out of sticks and stone."

Did he hear that correctly, their entire planet with basic tools? "Your entire planet? Surely your exaggerating."

They shook their head, "Not at all. Once my ancestors mastered fire, they had everything they needed to survive the harshest environments of our planet."

"I have heard of how resourceful your species could be. I shouldn't be surprised. After all, our civil war ended with your planet." he muttered. "As a psychiatrist by trade, I feel like my woeful ignorance of psychology in other races has hindered advancement in the field."

They shrugged, "You shouldn't beat yourself up about that. It's not your fault that relationships between organic and inorganic lifeforms have always been tentative at best. Honestly, it's usually easier just to avoid the other class of lifeforms most of the time."

"Yet you pulled me out of a fire and continue to talk to me." Rung countered.

"I rather not have someone burn in front of me if I can help it. Besides, what are the chances that, on a random planet, a cybertronian falls from the cloud line, only to land on my ship. Your practically the size of said ship" They laughed, "I can't even be mad at how ridiculous that is. The least I could do is have a conversation."

That's right. It was his fault that they were in this situation. And yet, the small being seemed so at ease. They seem to talk as if he was one of their own. A realization struck him: In all his millions of years, this was the first time he held a conversation with another organic lifeform. A full conversation, not some trading banter or a parsed out order. He was mortified, and here, this human managed to bridge that gap without him realizing it.

He wanted to commit this individual to memory. He had read reports about humans. Their faces bore an uncanny resemblance to cybertronians. He could attest to that, as their glassy optics stared steadily up at his. Familiar yet other worldly. Their body were covered in protective material. Their servos and head only exposed. Their epidermal layer looked soft, no doubt rivaling the mesh of his protoform.

A voice cut through his thoughts, "Are you okay Rung? Your optics flickered for a second."

They noticed that? Right, his glasses were burnt up in the fire. "Apologies, I do that when I am thinking."

They chuckled, "Good to know. So why travel to this end of the universe."

"My captain had declared that he would gather a crew to search for the Knights of Cybertron."

"So why did you sign up?"

Rung was stumped. No one actually ask him that. It was his job, yes, but it was a deliberate choice made of his own will, "At first, I wanted to find Cyber-Utopia too. But now, I don't think I was ready to go back to Cybertron. Not yet."

Their face softened. "That as good of reason as any."

They sat in a comfortable silence. Even then, Rung watched the human. A pang of guilt rippled across him. It was his fault they were stranded, so he made a promise to himself that he will do all that he can to help this individual. To repay their kindness.

The patter of the rain reduced to a light drizzle. Soon enough sunlight was filtering through the treetops. The human moved from under the shelter to stretch their limbs toward the sky. They started laughing. "It's about damn time and we're in luck. There's a Rainbow."

"A Rain-Bow?" He asked curiously. Rung followed their gaze. A multicolored arc of refracted light hugged the nearly cloudless sky. Beautiful. Then again, he looked back at the obvious joy of the human and his spark fluttered. He would have never seen this back on cybertron.

– BREAK –

Within the joor, Ratchet, Rodimus, and Ultra Magnus was on the ground. It was curious to watch the different reactions play out. Ratchet and Ultra Magnus seemed to regard the human with suspicion while the Captain could barely contain his excitement. Even at a distance, he could feel Rodimus EM field flaring. Yet the humans were unperturbed by the mechs towering over them..

Rung lost track of their conversation when the human took the commanding officers to the remains of their ship.

"I can't tell if you have the worst luck ever or that your the luckiest mech alive," Ratchet grumbled as he went to work.

"Thanks I think?"

"No no no. I mean it. Your peds are practically melted off. Radiation poisoning throughout the frame and fuel lines are laced with trace amounts Dark Energon."

"That would suggest that the human’s ship was fueled by that element." Rung shuddered. It was a deadly chemical to all Cybertronians.

"No doubt about it. The miracle is that I never seen such a robust fuel circulation like yours before. Your spark is literally cleansing itself of the radiation."

"If my body was that irradiated, shouldn't I be in more pain," There was an uncomfortable silence. "Ratchet."

The old medic groaned, "Your pain inhibitors are being dulled through a series of makeshift EM clamps. Nothing lethal. The tech is practically archaic, but the clamps are placed on key points along your frame for maximum effectiveness.

He continued, "Combined with the proficiency in welds throughout your body leads me to conclude that this human is quite familiar with our biology. Uncharacteristically so."

"What do you think, Ratchet?"

A long pause. "I think they are dangerous."

[regexkind]

The eclipse wasn't visible so I started reciting a litany of all JC's most cringe childhood memories until the cloudline relented

[sarentuclan]

Flying with an Ikran was a feeling like no other.

Koto felt every second of it. When connected, their hearts and bodies were one, and they felt each laborious wingbeat as they powered through the thick atmosphere of Pandora; clearly as if it were their own.

Together they rose, higher, higher; Telisi's chest rumbled with effort as she breathed the thinning air. The rain was oppressive at it beat against their chest, their legs, their face. It sent a chill down Koto's spine; all the way down to the tip of their tail. It wasn't storming yet, but it was close, and the forces of nature could easily turn against them any second.

Koto kept their grip on the harness and moved their body with the rhythm of the ikran's powerful movements as they gained altitude. Her decorative tassels and feathers went wild in the wind, blowing this way and that as they climbed higher and higher.

They narrowed their eyes, taking in the wall of white above them, putting in all their effort and focus into not slipping to their untimely demise. This flight was as exhilarating as it was dangerous, and there was no room for error.

Koto silently urged Telisi onward, and the ikran responded with a roar of her own. The wall was only a few tail-lengths away now.

Suddenly, they were swallowed.

They both tensed apprehensively as they were surrounded by white. One wingbeat. Two. Their vision was surrounded by blinding nothingness. Three. Four. The clouds were thick with moisture. It covered their skin with a thin layer of rainwater. Five.

For a few moments, it seemed like there was nothing else but the foggy view before them.

Six!

In an instant, sunlight warmed their skin as they breached the surface. Clouds trailed off her wings as Telisi dipped to a more horizontal angle; coasting on the top of the clouds gently. Her breathing holes on each side of her chest heaved with effort. Koto relaxed their muscles a bit as they both caught their breaths.

The sky above was beautiful. The pure blue stretched for miles and miles only to end at the cloudline. It seemed endless. If it wasn't for their TAP education, they would say it probably was.

Koto took the time to lean back and take in the world around them; the gentle rain-free breeze that existed above the clouds, the peaceful silence void of noise. To the left, the gigantic planet that Pandora orbited stood like a watchful eye over their world.

Beautiful. It was all beautiful.

But it wasn't what they were here for.

Slowly, carefully, Telisi knew what to do. She pulled her wings closer to her body, adjusting her stance so that the tip of her claws were slightly above her body. Her nose began to dip downwards. Koto pressed close against her back, making themself as small as possible.

Then they were falling.

No, not falling. Diving.

Again they were surrounded by clouds, but this time they were only there for a second; the gloomy atmosphere below them opened up like a blooming lionberry and had no intention of stopping.

Koto could hardly see as they both fell with the rain, but they felt the sheer thrill of the dive throughout their whole body. This is what it meant to be Na'vi. To feel the wondrous world of Pandora around you. To bond with fellow creatures of Eywa. To sharpen your skills to better serve your clan and it's people.

To live freely.

Telisi opened her mouth to belt out a warning; the ground was approaching fast and they were only gaining speed. Koto tightened their grip. Not yet. They were cutting it close, but they could make it a little closer. Push themselves a little harder. They were almost to the part they pulled up last time and they intended to go further.

As if on cue, the force the wind cut against Telisi, constricting her already rigid shape. Her wings trembled under the might of their task, pulling them closer to her body; then throwing off their balance as she pushed them out again. It was getting harder and harder to steer, and Koto's muscles burned with exhaustion. A less skilled rider would've lost control; their ikran falling out of formation and flipping over, or worse, straight plummeting out of the air. Panic gripped them for a second, and they felt the ikran beneath them tense. One wrong move and it could be over.

But Koto loved flying, and Telisi, more than most things. They could do this. They closed their eyes and imagined what lay below them; each individual leaf on the branches of each individual tree, surrounded by lake water. Peace crept into their heart and body, and when they opened their eyes, a new determination sparked in them.

"Now!" Koto shouted, locking their legs into position. They had no choice but to put their full trust into their ikran now.

Not that they would have it any other way.

Telisi roared and fought against the wind for control of her wings. She tilted her head, and with each passing second her wings shook with effort as she extended them outwards. Just a little more...

Yes!

Her dive deepened into a curve, narrowly missing some of the tallest trees. Her wings sprang outward; displaying their full terrifying beauty as they rapidly skimmed the lake water, both of them roaring and howling with delight. They did it!

Koto reached down and patted Telisi on the side of her head, and she chirped gleefully in response. They would be together forever; fighting side by side and sharing these breathtaking moments. Koto knew this to be as true as the sun would rise every morning.

Undoubtedly, flying with an ikran was a feeling like no other.

(a proofread and edited version of this post has been posted to AO3)

[tenurez]

Recently I was given an adopt as a gift and I decided to draw it and develop it a little more. so meet the yokai Yuki Murakumo :D

His Toyhouse

ºnickname: Cloudlines ºAge:16 ºGender: male (he/him)

So far this is the little I have thought of his story:

He was born in Japan but traveled to the United States because his parents sent him.

He can create and control these clouds/smokes. It serves to move objects and as a kind of fog to distract.

For some reason Leo can't stand him :D

Being in the hidden city, he is left in charge of Moon, a police wolf yokai. And here is a little comic of her wanting him to be in the police force as well so she can keep a better eye on him:

and that's all from him for the moment ^^

[mychlapci]

seekers are really communal frame types. it's actually part of the reason why they trine together; they're like rats or pigeons. a single seeker left alone to their own devices will often slip into depression without companionship. it's actually a big idea i have for my fan continuity.

i've seen people saying that vosians are prideful assholes and while i think that's true to some extent, i also think that they're just generally very focused on their communities. within my fan continuity, certain areas of cybertron lended themselves better to certain frame types. the areas that eventually became the region of vos were pitted by steep mountains and deep canyons so only those who could fly were able to properly settle there.

due to this, vos is a very flight oriented region. most cities there are built high into the atmosphere and rarely accommodate other frame types which has led to the stereotype that all vosians are vain and only care about themselves which is very much not true!

vos, in my fan continuity, isn't a single city. it's a name given to describe a specific region of cybertron that has similar topography, and language families (similar to how we call the middle east, the middle east even though there's a ton of different countries and cultures there)

vosians are generally some of the most outwardly friendly cybertronians due to the wingspeak that the region developed as their main form of communication. this language is allows for far more nuance but it's not something taught across cybertron so when vosian's speak common, their tones often come across as intensely snooty because they tend to be very blunt with their words.

seekers in particular are distinguished from other flight frames by their specific wing forms and general likeness to each other in terms of kibble placement and other such looks, are very community based, often forming massive neighborhoods and colonies of up to 120 seekers.

these colonies function just by the sheer feeling of community that shows up between those who are part of it. members often share, sleeping, cooking, bathing, and living spaces and it's not uncommon for multiple different trines to form massive poly relationships with each other just because of close proximity

this is also my explanation behind why the only air force we see in the decepticons are seekers. because they're so communal, it only made sense for them all to join the cons. not doing so would mean that one left behind might become extremely isolated and depressed from lack of contact.

seeker colonies are highly complex and often feature a single trine as the main leaders (in this case it would be the elite trine) but it can often vary from colony to colony. smaller ones might only have one trine in charge, but the bigger ones might have up to five which create a council of sorts to make decisions regarding the community

going back to the city structures of vos. it varies highly on the area but generally cities that are built high in the mountains tend to build outward around the mountain and then upward. so you'd see a lot of scaffolding around the lowest layers, just general structural support dug directly into the rock, while the upper most layers are connected by a series of bridges and pathways.

cities that built into the canyons of the region tend to be a lot more spread out, with chunkier buildings that better accommodate cybertronians of other frames. however it is consistent that vosian cities are built at high altitudes, feature heavy use of spiraling skyscrapers, and generally focused on flight frames and their specific needs. so lots of perches to land on, runways to take off from, and open aired buildings to allow for better weather predictions since some cities might be so high up that the upper layers stretch above the cloudline.

i have thoughts about the winglord thing in fandom. i think it's really interesting but i don't think it's a seeker specific thing.

so in terms of the winglord for this version of cybertron, i think it's a ceremonial term used to describe the winner of a ritual that determines who will lead the vosian region for the coming millennium regarding religious leadership. it's kinda like if the pope position got chosen by a fistfight. so like the winglord doesn't have any actual political power, but they do have a lot of religious influence

starscream in my continuity never actually becomes the winglord because of that reason. he's not particularly religious and because he specifically wants to join politics to get vos more focused on unifying with other cybertronian regions, he never participates in the winglord fights. however, sunstorm does

skywarp is a cartographer and his teleporting abilities allow him to get into unmapped spaces without too much trouble. which is very useful since vos' topography does not lend itself well to scanning devices because of the unpredictability of the weather. the area is prone to sudden and very random tornadoes because of it's mountainous landscape and it's actually part of the reason why vosian cities are designed the way they are. they're built most commonly in the areas that avoid the paths of the tornadoes

once again this ask is getting out of hand so i'm going to cap it off on that

aaaaaa i can't believe it took me so long to get to this ask, this is literally the coolest thing ever. Though i might be biased because I have... well, not exactly a continuity, more like... it's flashes and, uh, images, in my head, barely headcanons, and they're not always nearly as pregnancy-based as i led everyone to believe. And in these barely-headcanons, i am a sucker for, first of all, the cybertronian "cities" being more akin to areas or states with more cities within, and second of all your idea of seeker communal society kind of reminds me of the way that the roman kingdom operated, and i looove to get inspired by rome for my cybertronian worldbuilding. mostly because rome was very fucked up and cybertron needs to be as well.

and yeah, the winglord thing, i do feel like it's possible that every city/state on cybertron would have a high ranking official that is technically "in charge" and vosnians simply call it a winglord, but it's not exclusive to them. sorry just the political arrangement of cybertron is so interesting to me, no.1 favourite thing to think about. it probably depends on the "area" but the official can be only religious in nature or fully tyrannical or anywhere in between. again, sorry, i have to stop thinking about this.

in love with your mind, i love communal fliers. i know people can get weird about seekers and trines but i love it when it's simply a cultural difference.